


Reverberates

by hitlikehammers



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 221B Ficlet, Episode Tag, Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, Gen, Missing Scene, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-13
Updated: 2014-01-13
Packaged: 2018-01-08 13:23:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1133151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hitlikehammers/pseuds/hitlikehammers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The British Nation,”  he tosses blithely; “has dearly missed your face.”</p><p> <b>Episode Spoilers for 3.03: His Last Vow.</b></p>
            </blockquote>





	Reverberates

**Author's Note:**

> It is entirely [snogandagrope](http://archiveofourown.org/users/snogandagrope)'s fault that this 221b didn't just remain in my gdocs. Enabling enabler, she is.
> 
> But honestly: I believe in Mycroft Holmes.

“Well, this is a turn-up, isn’t it?”

The sigh that follows reverberates.

“You’ll have to forgive my manners,” he sing-songs; cheeky. “Haven’t got any tea in. Shame.”

Among his habitués, he rarely ranks such celebrity. He’s missed a mind to toy with. He’s missed the show.

“You’ve been in this cell nearly three years, now.”

Nearly. Very nearly.

He knows the days. The hours.

“Can I assume you’ve been pondering your glorious reascension for most of that time? Aiming to reclaim your family’s throne?” 

He grins; his teeth clack.

Among other things.

Heartbreak. Hate. Love. Hurt. Loss.

Revenge.

The game.

Anything but the static stare of these walls. 

Anything but _staying_.

“We Moriartys do look quite fetching in a crown.”

His guest smiles, a little too pleased.

“There’s been an incident.”

“How novel.”

His guest sneers, and those eyes: those eyes are perfection. Calculating. Cold.

 _Iceman_.

“I require a problem only Sherlock Holmes can solve.”

His pulse jumps.

“Sir Boast-A-Lot’s got himself into a bit of a bind?”

Jim wasn’t the only one with eyes for the Virgin.

“Murder. Treason. Firearm possession. Terrible business.”

He can barely blink before the shackles snap open. 

“The British Nation,” Mycroft Holmes doesn’t answer; tosses blithely; “has dearly missed your face.”

James grins.

Music to his ears. One-hundred-and-four beats to the minute.

Ready to _burn_.


End file.
